The Rose in the garden slipped her bud, And she laughed in the pride of her youthful blood, As she thought of the Gardener standing by -- "He is old -- so old! And he soon must die!" The full Rose waxed in the warm June air, And she spread and spread till her heart lay bare; And she laughed once more as she heard his tread -- "He is older now! He will soon be dead!" But the breeze of the morning blew, and found That the leaves of the blown Rose strewed the ground; And he came at noon, that Gardener old, And he raked them gently under the mold. And I wove the thing to a random rhyme: For the Rose is Beauty; the Gardener, Time. |